


Bookmarked for Later

by chucks_prophet



Series: Free Flyin' [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel's POV, Castiel/Dean Winchester Flirting, Continued from Last Fic, First Meetings, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Phone Calls & Telephones, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Visiting Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 23:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10864635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: "Wait, did you think I was a phone sex operator when I answered the phone?"”No... no!” Castiel scoffs. “Okay, maybe for a split second. Your voice is...""Sexy?"Castiel nearly falls off the bed at the sound of that word coming from that mouth.





	Bookmarked for Later

Non-stop is taken to a whole new extreme with his family.

Ever since Castiel Novak’s been in Pontiac, he’s been cruising through every green light imaginable. Drive Dad to his doctor’s appointment, fill up the tank of gas, “oh yeah, and while you’re out, can you pick up salad for dinner?”, spend twenty minutes trying to find the produce aisle on a short-staffed mini-mart and sending an irritated text to Jimmy because _no_ , he doesn’t remember where it is, it’s been a year at least since he’s been back in his hometown, head back home, sit down, go back out a half hour later to pick up Dad, put up with griping from _said_ father about being five minutes late, sit back down, play charades with the family…

It’s only after he eats an early dinner that he finally, _truly_ sits down with a break that doesn’t involve a toilet. Reading usually helps calm his nerves, but he hasn’t had the time. It’s good to have family, but there is such thing as too _much_ family. And two weeks is basically like one small step in time, but one giant leap to more mileage on his bones.

His father’s health took a drastic turn a few months ago. His heart is at risk for another stroke. Jimmy is a good son, and despite them not being as close as they used to be, a good brother, and he’s overwhelmed. So is his wife, Castiel’s sister-in-law, Amelia, and their daughter Claire. Wherever Cas can help, he will.

Castiel plops down on guest bed that groans if the cold air from AC so much as blows over it the wrong way and plucks his book from the dresser. However, it’s not the book that interests him anymore so much as it is his makeshift bookmark—his ID tag. He pulls it out from between the vertebra of the novel and examines it again. Below the line that has his number is another set of ten numbers scribbled in hasty blue ink.

It’s the same area code as his, and when he thinks back a couple weeks ago on his encounters that _didn’t_ involve generally rude people and clueless employees stalking the floors, he’s reminded of the man that gave him back his tag in the first place. He has to be the one that wrote that number. That, or the bowlegged gent that pretended he didn’t steal it in the first place, and he sent the taller guy in his place to return it to Castiel.

Castiel laughs. What a trip—and that all took place _before_ his flight.

He stares at the flimsy piece of paper one more time before grabbing his phone.

After a few beats—literally, substituting a ring is the chorus of Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love”, a deep voice that can only be described as overworked Batman answers: “Hello?”

"I, um... sorry. I think I dialed the wrong number,” Castiel says, fumbling with his phone like a rookie quarterback with a football. “You can take me off your registry."

"Castiel?!"

"Who is this?"

"Dean… umm... from the airport,” the man says. “My brother, Blunderbore with Gene Simmons hair, he, um, wrote my number on your ID tag."

"Oh. Oh!” _Play it cool, Castiel_ , he tells himself, _it’s the cute bowlegged gent, but he’s a person, nonetheless_. “You know, if you wanted to know my name, you could've just asked. I've been courted for much less.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line, but Castiel can vaguely make out a noise, like Dean’s scratching his neck. “Yeah... sorry about that. I had laryngitis."

"Ah,” Castiel replies intelligently.

"Wait, did you think I was a  _phone sex operator_ when I answered the phone?"

”No... no!” Castiel scoffs. “Okay, maybe for a split second. Your voice is..."

"Sexy?"

Castiel nearly falls off the bed at the sound of _that_ word coming from _that_ mouth. "I... umm… well, you know, Zeppelin factored in, too…”

"Well, I appreciate the compliment,” Dean laughs—to Castiel’s relief. “I’m actually a mechanic. I like to consider myself a car doctor, because it sounds a lot sexier, but that label's below the annual pay grade." There’s another pause. ”So, um... hi. Nice to officially sort of meet you."

"You as well,” Castiel reciprocates with a small smile. “Are you on work?"

"No, no. I'm waiting to burn the midnight oil later. What about you?"

"I'm  _always_ burning the oil when I'm visiting family."

"Ooh. And they're okay with you using their landline to call a sex hotline?"

Castiel pulls back a slightly larger smile. ”My twin brother is a devout Christian: If I'm not on my knees for the Lord, then I shouldn't be kneeling at all. This is my cell number."

"Good to know,” Dean says, to which Castiel’s mouth falls open like his suitcase the second he sank his feet into Pontiac soil again. (He’s a heavy packer.)

"You're sly, you know that?"

"And you're a sinner,” Dean states matter-of-factly. “Although, I must be too, because I can't stop imagining a photocopy you. It's probably the best thing since knowing there would've been two Elvises."

Castiel blushes so hard, he’s sure Dean can feel the warmth from his cheeks burning his own through the phone. ”Oh, I could never live up to Elvis. But you could probably live up to James Dean's legacy. You have that whole defy-conventional-standards persona about you.”

"Really? I didn’t know James Dean stole identification tags.”

"Rebel Without A Cause."

Dean laughs softly, the sound crinkling the static like virtual bubble wrap. ”So what do you do, Cas?"

"I'm an occupational therapist,” Castiel replies. “I help people return to society after recuperating from physical or mental health issues."

"Oh wow. That's... amazing."

“Really?"

"Yeah, really," Dean emphasizes, sincerity in his voice, “my brother owes his life to you guys. He's been through a lot. I mean, I'm there for him, but his therapist is..."

“I understand,” Cas says, smiling, because he does. It’s easier to quantify the aid he provides with the thank you cards lining his dresser at home. “And did you call me Cas?"

A pause, then: “Huh, I think I did. Sorry."

"No, no, it's okay... I actually kind of like it,” Cas, newly christened from Castiel, says, and okay, now Dean’s done it, because his smile is expanding now. “But a better question is when am I going to see you again?"

"Depends,” Dean says, playing the cryptic card. “When do you fly back?"

"The twenty-third. 7pm. 4 days, 11 hours, 15 minutes, and... 31 seconds from now.”

Dean laughs, "Someone's eager."

"I'll repent for as many sins as it takes to get me out of playing another round of charades.”

"What, it's not  _therapeutic_ for you?"

"A  _beer_ would be therapeutic at this point.”

"Well, we're just gonna have to make that happen,” Dean states with finality. “How does Biggerson's sound? I know it's not fancy, but the Turkducken's are—"

"Hypnotic,” Cas cuts in. “I’ve had three in one sitting.”

Another pause on the other end, then Dean says: “I’m already looking forward to a second date."

"Bye, Dean,” Cas laughs.

"Bye, Cas."

Cas bites his lip as he ends the call, the full-fledged smile on his face unstoppable.

Then again, maybe he doesn’t want this week to stop.

Cas isn’t much of the praying type, but before bed, he prays for as many green lights as possible on the way from the airport.


End file.
